


Who Answers

by hollo



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Introspection, M/M, first person POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4920766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollo/pseuds/hollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of Pink and Baptize Me In, in Red's (red goth/Pete's) POV.<br/>Chasing ghosts is no way to live... Red struggles through the next phase of his and Stan's relationship while trying to resolve his feelings on ghosts of his past...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome!  
> This story is a continuation of Pink and Baptize Me In, I'll include the links so if you are so inclined you can read those stories. Where Pink and BMI were first person POV from Stan's side, Who Answers is from Red's side. Both Pink and BMI contain mentions of suicide, lots of turbulent emotions, mentions of alcoholism, and such so please be prepared for that. Who Answers will continue to be in the same vein, though not with so much of the suicide and self harm as the first two.  
> Red is going to be attempting to learn how to live life a bit differently than before, and change is sometimes a very difficult thing.
> 
> PINK: http://archiveofourown.org/works/500120  
> BAPTIZE ME IN: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1131405

Chasing ghosts was no way to live. I knew that, I'd known it since the day my dad died. I'd chased his ghost for years, hounded it, begged and pleaded with it in every dream, waking or not. Now the ghost was a shadow and I couldn't remember his face anymore, couldn't remember his voice, and the memories that remained had grown tainted by the chase. In the desperation to catch a ghost I'd lost sight of my dad, and all that remained was a dark form in my memories.

I lay in bed, wide awake and staring at the line of morning slowly making its way across the ceiling. Stan was asleep, snoring slightly and drooling on my shoulder where he'd rested his head. We'd had back-to-back appointments at the counselor the day before. The emotional strain always left Stan wiped out; he crashed hard and slept deeply enough that an explosion wouldn't have woken him. I just left those meetings feeling raw and bruised. I didn't like having my emotions probed, despised the feeling that I was being bullied into speaking. I'd promised Stan, though, and I was resolute in that promise. Besides, while Stan went every week I only went once a month and that was a small price to pay to work towards a better home life.

Still, it took a lot out of me to make it in each time. The sessions brought up feelings, and the feelings brought back memories of my dad - or rather, memories of when dad stopped being around.

Some memories were better left buried.

I wanted to get up. No, I wanted to sleep. I really didn't know what I wanted. The air seemed heavy, maybe a storm was coming, and I was finding it hard to breathe. Stan shifted at my side, the arm he'd laid across my chest curling around me slightly.  I envied his peaceful slumber, though I knew that there was no way of knowing what state he'd be in until he woke. I traced a finger lightly over the line of his bicep, down the curve of his elbow and across his forearm. He'd lost some muscle mass the past couple years, he wasn't playing football anymore, but he was still toned enough that I could feel the definition. He'd managed to keep up a workout routine, despite no longer playing sports. It gave him something to focus on, something to drive him. I envied him that as well.

Carefully I maneuvered myself from under Stan's arm and propped his head on the pillow. He continued sleeping without a hitch, though a slight frown curved his lips. Gently I stroked his hair back from his forehead, ran fingertips lightly over his cheek, and his expression relaxed again. Quietly I padded out of the room, closing the door softly behind me. I headed to the kitchen, aching for a cup of coffee, but found I'd woke too early for the coffee maker. It ran on a timer, set to start brewing at six fifteen, just right to be piping hot when I usually woke up. I considered running it early, but decided to wait it out. If I ran it then the coffee would be cold by the time Stan got up, and there was no sense running the coffee maker twice. We really should invest in a Keurig, I thought. It had all those mocha caramel kahlua flavored coffees Stan liked.

I wandered into the living room, glancing around aimlessly. I liked waking up early but being unable to sleep all night was a different beast. My fingers wandered over the edge of the tv stand, I shoved the coffee table with my foot to straighten it out. The sun was beginning to shine through the slats in the blinds and one streak of light hit me directly in the eye as I neared the window. With a grimace I turned back around and settled heavily on the couch. I felt bone deep weary, wasted, drained and finite. My fingers tapped against the couch arm restlessly. Outside the window a robin called, another answered. I frowned at nothing and stared in the direction If the dark tv screen.

I hated spring.

 ---

  Kyle came to the shop sometime after lunch. He'd made a habit of it the last few weeks after he was given a new shift, coming over a couple of times a week for an hour or so before his shift started. He'd page through the tattoo binders and chat with Oliver and just BE, just exist, an extra presence I couldn't quite get used to.

I'd never had much of an opinion of him growing up. He was there, just like everyone else, a peripheral body shape at the edges of my attention. He was an Other in our majorly white Christian town, but he tried to fit in, and I'd placed him firmly onto the "Wannabe In Crowd" list in my head and promptly stopped giving a crap about him early on. Then high school came and things got shaken up for a lot of people. Still, if it wasn't for Stan I wouldn't have paid him much attention anyways. In Crowders were annoying, but the brand of anarchist Kyle had been the first two years of high school had bordered on dangerous.

He'd changed. I mused on that thought as I cleaned up my station and Kyle paged through a binder for the umpteenth time, chewing on his lip ring. He wasn't quite as impulsive as he had been then. He wasn't as explosive as he had been after Kenny left. But there was still a sharp sort of calculation about him, hiding behind the gray of his eyes. Waiting.

It scared me.

"Pick a design yet?" I asked, sorting through the clean needles I'd pulled out of the sanitizer.

"I d-don't know," Kyle answered, leaning back in his chair. He looked at me, "It's a b-big decision."

He wasn't looking for a design. He was looking for resolve. I wondered if Stan knew what he was planning, but doubted it. Stan would've brought it up if he'd had - which meant that I knew something about Kyle that he didn't. The thought made my skin prickle.

"Whatever," I packed the needles away and pulled the gloves off of my hands. Then, thinking my response had been a little too curt, I added, "Whenever you're ready let me know."

Kyle eyed me curiously a moment, but he grinned in response.

"W-well I have t-to get to w-work," he said, closing the binder and getting up. "I'll s-see you around."

I gave him half a wave as he walked back towards the front. I didn't mind his intrusions, though they sometimes set me on edge. We barely talked, and it wasn't as if we were hanging out because we were friends. Well, we were friendly to each other but we weren't exactly close. I appreciated his presence though, even if it made me something like nervous. It kept me awake.

I'd been supposed go over to Henrietta's for dinner and a movie that night, our bi-weekly ritual, but we had to postpone because her cat got sick. I felt for Jericho, I did, but it still irked me, and I left work feeling fouler than I had in a while.

I hadn't called Stan to let him know, so he hadn't been expecting me to be home early. Still, his surprise was of the happy sort, and he greeted me with a smile and a hug, and I was sharply reminded of the Stan I remembered from years before - before the secrets and the anguish and betrayals and the dead boys. Maybe the counseling sessions really were working for him. I hoped they were.

"No movie tonight?" Stan asked.

"Jericho ate a ball of rubberbands and Henrietta had to take him to the vet," I explained with a sigh. I sighed a lot lately, even I could tell. With a frown I tossed my keys towards the keyring holder on the wall. I missed, although they probably wouldn't have caught properly to hang anyways. It was a stupid and mindless thing to do but it matched my mood perfectly.

Stan looked down at the keys where they'd fallen, then looked at me. I shrugged.

"Are you going running?" I asked instead of answering his unspoken question. Stupid again because why else would he be wearing his running shorts and shirt and shoes.

"Yeah, I was going to take a lap around the park." Stan grinned. He'd started his runs to keep in shape, then he'd continued them to help take his mind off drinking when he went sober. At least he had a productive hobby that kept him going.

"Mind if I join you?" I asked, trying not to sound sour. I wasn't in the mood to sit at home, alone, waiting for Stan to get back.

"Yeah, if you want," Stan looked amused but had the presence of mind not to voice it.

I went to change, beginning to regrettably intrusion into his personal time. I hadn't slept the night before, I felt like shit, and now I was going to have to go running through the park, attempting to keep up with a guy who had years worth of built up stamina. Still, I got dressed into the only clothes I owned that passed for athletic: long black jogging pants, a random tee shirt, and a pair of sneakers I rarely wore.

The park was close by, and we walked over at a leisurely pace. The sun was out and the day was warm, and there were birds chirping in the bushes. I glared at them; they were no doubt the same ones that greeted me every morning outside the window, chirping as if they were seeing the sun for the first time.

"I know man, sparrows piss me off too," Stan commented in such a serious tone I had to chuckle. He grinned at me, obviously pleased he'd broken through my gloomy mood. What a loser.

And then we ran. Stan was gracious enough to slow down to my pace, although gracious was the sarcastic way of putting it probably. He was just being nice. Considerate in an actual way, not a condescending way. It was even pleasant, running with him, even if the sun did burn my eyes and my legs started aching long before we actually stopped. It felt like we were sharing something; I guess we were. It wasn't anything tangible, but it felt good.

We stopped finally at a water fountain. Stan looked barely winded. I felt like I'd just run a marathon while being rained on. My body was rejecting the idea of ever running ever again unless it's life depended on it and I was inclined to agree at the moment.

A few people passed us as we rehydrated at the fountain. They were running, and they looked cheerful and toned and good looking. And they all waved at Stan as they passed, and he waved back, and I felt a little sick but that was most likely because I hadn't run like that in years.

"Ready to go home?" Stan asked. I wiped water off my chin and tried to ignore the ache in my calves and the stitch in my side.

"Don't you usually stay out longer?" I wouldn't bring up the idea of continuing to run myself but I wasn't going down without a fight.

"Come on," Stan said, laying an arm across my shoulders and pulling me along. "Let's go, I'm starving."

I didn't argue. We headed back home, Stan chatting about his day as I caught my breath and walked off the stitch in my side. Every now and then someone new would jog past us, and like the others before they'd wave at Stan or say hi to him. They were all fit in some way, obviously runners that he'd met when he ran at the park. My mind gravitated towards the thought of how they were all a part of his life I had no knowledge of - I didn't recognize a single person who greeted him. It was an odd feeling, one I couldn't quite describe

Back home the feeling still hadn't subsided. I kicked my shoes off as Stan hung his keys up and tried not to focus on it, which backfired spectacularly, as always. It started feeling like jealousy, or maybe envy, and that never led to anything good.

"Hey," Stan said, his voice low, coming up to hug me from behind. "Let's order something for delivery..."

He ended the sentence with a kiss to my neck, wrapping his arms closer around me. I could feel his chest against my back, his body heat a welcome sign of his presence. I didn't have to ask what he had in mind; sometimes ordering out was just that, and sometimes...

I was tired, though. Worn out. The sleepless nights were getting to me and everything was getting painted in post production negative. I wasn't in the mood and I knew if I told him he'd back off because that's what Stan did, considerate Stan, and at the same time I couldn't imagine doing that to him because it wasn't his fault, after all.

A month ago the counselor had asked why I found bondage play erotic and the shock of having such a deeply personal question thrown at me still hadn't faded. Was there the implication that it was somehow wrong? That I was somehow wrong? The taint ran deep especially when the chance for intimacy arose. It wasn't Stan's fault, and I desperately wanted and needed the closeness, but between the sleepless nights and the tainted thoughts it was getting harder to keep myself from getting disgusted at the mere implication of sex.

What if there WAS something wrong with me?

"Thai sounds good," I said, with a certainty I was lacking on the inside. I turned within the embrace of Stan's arms and kissed him deeply, and his arms tightened around me comfortingly. Maybe I could finally sleep, if I tired myself out. Maybe he could prove to me that I wasn't wrong.


	2. Restless Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A simple chapter, but an important chapter. The story shoves off in full in chapter three. I hope you enjoy!!

Who Answers 2: Restless Mind

 

Chasing ghosts was no way to live, and I should have known it by now. Arguing with them wasn't exactly constructive either, and neither was fighting with them.

Being jealous of them?

I tapped the ash off the end of my cigarette and watched it fall to the ground stories below. The living room windowsill I had rested my elbows on tilted a little as I leaned out to take a better look at the night sky; I'd joked once that if I leaned too far out the sill might just completely tip over and send me falling to the sidewalk below. Stan refused to let me smoke out that window ever since - I tried to humor him when he was around.

The unstable sill didn't frighten me. There was no way I could fall out, realistically. The window opening was much too small and the sill was only wobbly, not detached. A bad sealing job, perhaps, or loose nails. Our apartment wasn't exactly five star living, and our rent apparently didn't cover handymen; we'd asked our landlord to fix it a year ago.

The cigarette ended quicker than I'd expected. I flicked the butt out the window, horrible litterer that I am, and watched the flickering orange of the still-lit end tumble to the sidewalk below. The night sky above was dark and cloudy, the stars barely peeking out where the cloud cover thinned. I'd left Stan sleeping alone again; I was running on my fourth night with no sleep. I'd never had issues with insomnia but the past months had done something to me...

Quietly I closed the window, slowly so it wouldn't screech, and then made my way over to the front door. I slipped my shoes on in the dark, and took Stan's keys from the keyholder, cupping them so they wouldn't make any noise. Slipping out the door I headed downstairs, and outside. The air was still nippy this early in the spring, but I'd pulled on one of Stan's hoodies when I'd gotten up and the cold couldn't reach me.

I wasn't sure where Stan had parked his Civic and I hoped it wasn't too far away. Parking spaces could be hard to come by, by our building. Wandering for a while, I finally found the car around the far corner of the block, sitting under a tree. The night was darker on that side of the building, probably because of the trees that lined the street, but I recognized it's shape. I got inside, pulling the door shut quietly. The drivers seat was a bit too far back, and all the mirrors were at the wrong angles for me, but I didn't want to change anything. Maybe I was hoping Stan wouldn't notice the intrusion in the morning if I left things as close to the same as possible, which was idiotic because I'd probably end up on a different parking spot when I got back anyway. The only way he wouldn't know was if I didn't drive anywhere.

The car started easily, engine turning over with a purr. Stan took good care of it, and despite its age it ran well. I pulled onto the road and drove down the darkened streets. I didn't amble along side roads or cruise along the long street between North Park and South. The time didn't matter, early or late, I felt restless, like I was searching for a pull. A compass needle, shuddering as it looked for magnetic north and unable to find it. Something like that.

Cemetary Road connected old South Park Cemetery with the new Cemetery. Technically it was all the same plot of land, but there was a deep patch of brush that separated the two halves. I stopped at the T-intersection where Ridge met Cemetery, the idling engine sending the slightest of tremors through the steering wheel and into my fingers. To the left was the old cemetery, with crumbling gravestones and overgrown mausoleums. To the right, the new cemetery. I peered into the darkness past the fence, but the night was too deep and I couldn't make out any shapes. For a moment longer I sat tapping a finger against the steering wheel - then slowly eased the car forward and turned the wheels towards the new section.

The gate was closed, so I parked across from it and jumped the fence. The grounds were well kept, the grass had been cut recently, and the road through the cemetery was surprisingly pothole free. I headed, aimlessly at first, across the grassy expanse. There were no headstone, no statues, just small gravemarkers set into the ground so that the sit-on mowers would have no obstructions. I tried not to walk over graves, but it was useless; every time I thought I'd avoided one the marker would appear beneath my feet, proving me wrong. I gave up eventually.

It took fifteen minutes to reach Craig's grave. I had no reason to be there, and I shouldn't have known where it was except that the goths had gone to visit it the night after he was buried and my brain had decided to remember the location.

There was a small ceramic pot with wilting mums standing next to the gravemarker. A weathered card was tucked against the edge of the stone, on it a faded yellow teddy bear held a big red heart, the words "Missing You" just barely visible inside of it.

What was I doing there? A chill wind had picked up, cutting slightly through the fabric of the hoodie, and I shuddered. What was I doing...

I left Craig, unable to answer myself. The deeper I went into the cemetery the larger the trees were and the darker the ground was. There were few flowers to mark graves, although some of the older gravemarkers still had slightly domed tops from a time when it was still allowed.

I was surprised to discover I'd found my way in the dark, but there it was. The rectangular piece of granite was set deep into the earth, the grass bordering it having grown onto it along all four edges. I could barely make out the lettering; years of dirt and grime had filled the letters so only the barest edges showed anymore. I stood and stared and waited for something to strike me, come to me, evoke in me some sort of epiphany of emotion.

Sons were supposed to go to their fathers for advice, weren't they?

But I'd never gone back over the years - I'd barely been there at all in the first place. He'd died when I was sick with Swine flu as a kid, so badly sick I had to be in the hospital, and my mom wouldn't allow me to visit his grave until I was healthy again. By that time the funeral wreath was long gone, the dirt mound had settled after a recent rain, and grass had started inching it's way across the plot.

I'd never gone back, and it looked as if my mother hadn't either. I wondered if I should say something, or make an effort to clean off the dirt and grass. Would it even matter anymore, after all these years? Probably not, I decided.

But I still couldn't walk away.

 --

 

It was a good ten days before Kyle showed up at the shop again. I didn't know when I'd started counting but apparently unnecessary minutiae was something my brain was good at remembering. I'd seen him during that time, of course. He'd come over with Christophe on the weekend to play video games with Stan and me, but he hadn't brought up the visits to the shop. I wondered if Christophe knew, or if Kyle was keeping him in the dark as well.

"T-today," Kyl said simply, sounding resolute.

"You're sure?" I asked, because at the very least I could make sure he was determined.

"Yeah," Kyle said, then sighed and pulled out a folded paper from his back pocket. "I-it's crooked b-but I t-think you'll get t-the idea."

He smoothed the slightly crinkled page and I looked over the design he'd drawn. It was surprisingly simple.

"Y-you can d-do it today, right?" Kyle asked. I looked at him again; his gaze didn't falter, the resolute look in his eyes hadn't faded. I slid the paper over to one side of the table and motioned for him to sit down.

"Let's get started."

 --

 

"Red?"

I could only vaguely make out Stan's voice. It hovered in the very fringes of my consciousness, fluttering like a moth.

"Red, you're gonna be late for work."

"Sick day," I mumbled into my pillow. I'd finally gotten more than an hour of sleep at a stretch and I was loathe to force myself out of my heavy drowse.

I felt Stan pull the covers over my shoulders, and place a kiss on my head. He said something more, but I was too comfortable and too far away to focus on his words, and soon everything faded away again.

-

"Ollie obviously didn't mind, he said you've been looking worn out recently," Stan said as he spread the casserole mixture into the pan. I grunted in response, a steaming cup of black coffee in my hands, watching him prepare dinner. He was using the kitchen table to put it together since our counter was too small for all thr ingredients, and I sat at it, occasionally moving things over for him when he asked me to.

"I know you're having trouble sleeping," He said, then gave me a critical look. "I wanted you to tell me yourself but you didn't."

"Its just been a few nights," I said, sipping the coffee. Stan rolled his eyes as he covered the casserole with aluminum foil.

"At a time maybe," He muttered as he carried the casserole to the over and slid it inside. He pulled his phone out and set the timer, and placed it on the counter next to the stove. Then he turned back to me with a serious look on his face, "Don't be afraid to tell me these things."

"I'm not," I said, and was surprised to hear how honest I sounded.

"You think I'm going to worry."

"You always worry."

"I mean over-worry. And I'm not. You don't have to deal with this stuff all alone."

"You're regurgitating advice that you've received yourself." I said flatly.

"Its good advice," Stan responded, shaking a dirty spoon at me.

I had to give him that.

"Come on, let's go be stupid boyfriends and cuddle in front of the TV while the casserole bakes." Stan said, sweeping some stray crumbs off the table. He'd been diligently placing everything he'd used into the sink and rinsing it as he made dinner, so there was little clean up left.

"Ugh," I dragged myself to my feet and set my now empty cup in the sink. "Fine. If we have to."

Stan grabbed my hand and dragged me into the living room, where the TV had been playing evening sitcoms since he'd come home. We settled onto the couch, and Stan pulled me over so I could lean on him comfortably. I kissed his cheek and settled with a sigh against his chest.

"Thank you."

"For what?" Stan asked, playing with my hand.

"For being you." I curled up closer, his heartbeat drumming against my ear.

"Dork." Stan said with a chuckle. I grinned and let myself relax.


	3. Bitter Haze

Chapter 3: Bitter Haze  
  
I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped inside the apartment. I'd stayed later at the shop to help a new client get the details of their highly intricate tattoo down. It was promising to be an intense project, and I wanted to be sure we were getting everything settled properly. To be honest, the idea was exciting, and I'd gotten so caught up in discussing the design and details that I hadn't noticed the time pass. Once again I'd made it home after Stan, and I could hear the TV playing as I walked inside.

 

"Hey," Stan grinned at me as I walked into the living room. There was something off in his expression, however. I sat down next to him, eyeing him curiously.

  
"What is it?" I asked.

  
"What?"

  
"What's bothering you?" I asked again. Stan fidgeted with the remote. He side-eyed me, look back down at the remote. I waited, watching him, and after a long wait he finally sighed.

  
"Uh, so," Stan began, cleared his throat. "Your mom called. Me."

  
"What," I snapped. The thought that she had reached out, after EVERYTHING that had happened, and called Stan, of all people, set me on vicious edge. "Why?"

  
"She didn't say exactly." Stan had leaned away from me a little, and he was eyeing me apprehensively. "She just said she needed to see you."

  
"See me..." I slouched against the back of the couch and tried to consider what Stan had said without red tinged rage. It was no surprise she hadn't called me directly - I'd changed my cell number after moving out and had never shared it with her. So of course she'd called Stan instead. The only question was... "Why?"

  
"She didn't say," Stan said with a shrug, relaxing slightly. "Just that she wanted to see you as soon as possible. She made it sound urgent."

  
Urgent or not, I felt no inclination to go see her. My mother had never been perfect, but she'd allowed me at least some semblance of freedom growing up, and tolerated my goth style for many years. There were things she'd force me into, but there were also times she'd just let it go if she wasn't able to argue me into her line of thinking. Which was why her reaction to discovering that Stan and I were continuing our relationship after we graduated hurt so much. Maybe I should've expected it, with her being as religious as she was, but I'd assumed she'd turn a stoically blind eye to it as she had before...  I was still dead certain that Stan's parents would've reacted differently if not for her overblown dramatics. Sure, Cartman had lit the match, but she didn't have to let him set the fire…

  
I grimaced and groaned, ran my hands through my hair. Just thinking about her, and about seeing her again, made my head hurt and my skin crawl. I wanted absolutely nothing to do with her... But she was still my mother, and practically the only family I had left…

  
"I don't know what to do," I muttered. Stan shifted next to me.

  
"Maybe... She had a change of heart?" Stan said. He actually sounded hopeful. I hated thinking of the day when he'd take up all the shit he had to go through and all the bad experiences and after serious deliberation come to the realization that humans were not, in fact, intrinsically good deep down inside and that there existed people who were beyond hope. I hoped it never got to that point; I never wanted to see Stan turn bitterly cynical. I sighed, reaching out to pat him gently on his cheek.

  
"Oh Stanley, miracles rarely happen to good people, and never to people like us." I said with a rueful grin, because if he wasn't bitterly cynical as of yet, I sure as hell was.

  
Stan rolled his eyes and smiled, and then he reached out and wrapped me in a hug. Though I still bristled from thoughts of my mother, I accepted his embrace.

  
"You do whatever you feel you should," Stan said, kissing my forehead. It was my turn to roll my eyes.

  
"Lovely neutral stance," I muttered, sighing.

  
"Yeah, well, what am I supposed to say?" Stan shifted so his arms lay more comfortably around me, and leaned his head against mine.

  
I stayed silent. What could he say? Nothing. Nothing that could help, at least. I burrowed closer against him, trying to shut away the outside world. It didn't help. The sitcom's laugh track reached me, cruelly inappropriate for my mood. I tried to make up my mind, but each time I thought of seeing her a shudder ran through me, so chilling.

  
"I'm not going to decide now." I said finally, fully aware of how grumpy I sounded and hating it.

  
"Gonna sleep on it?" Stan asked, relaxing his hold a little.

  
"I'll try," I said  Stan pulled back more, and I settled against the back of the couch again, without his support. I tried to focus on the TV and relax, but the swirling thoughts in my head wouldn't let me go.  
  
***  
"Can I borrow the car? I'm going to see her after work." I'd told Stan in the morning. He knew what that meant - that I'd be going alone. I think it frightened him a little. He'd looked uncertain.

  
"Are you sure?"

  
I'd assured him I was, and he reminded me that I could use the car whenever I wanted, that it was OURS not HIS. I'd assured him that everything would be fine, told him I'd call once I was headed home.

  
As I sat in the car, engine idling, half a block from my mother's house I wondered if I could fake the visit. Just let an hour or two pass and call Stan and go home. I knew my mother, however. If she'd already called Stan once, she'd have no issue calling him again, and I'd hate to think how he would feel if he knew I'd lied to him about the visit.

  
Steeling myself, I took a deep breath and let it out. Carefully I schooled my expression into the cool and disinterested mask I'd perfected over years of pretending indifference. I glanced at the rearview mirror to check my hair and makeup. Hair, slightly off because I needed to get a trim, but decent. Makeup, on point. I was as good to go as I would ever be. Turning the engine off, I got out of the car and locked it, then headed down the street to the house I'd once called home.  
It was as cheery as it had ever been, as bright and flowery and as white-picket-fenced as before. Nothing had changed with the house, and I was certain nothing had changed with the occupant. I entered through the front gate, took my time crossing the walkway and mounting the steps to the door. I reminded myself that I'd resolved to go; at the very least so I could tell her off for bothering Stan over nothing. It had to be nothing, I told myself, if she hadn't even told him why she needed to see me.

  
Letting out another breath, I reached out and rang the doorbell. I couldn't hear it through the door, but my mind remembered its cheery tune still. A short moment passed, and the door opened to reveal my mother. She hadn't changed much since I'd seen her last. I couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. A part of me found my disgust with her justified at seeing that nothing had changed; another part of me was disappointed to find that not having contact with her son for years had apparently left her unaffected. She grinned at me pleasantly, as if she'd seen me the day before. As if she hadn't cursed me out of my house and refused to contact me before now.

  
"Hello Jeremiah," She said with no evidence of rancor in her voice. My skin prickled, it took all my self control not to sneer.

  
"What do you need?" I asked plainly.

  
"Would you like to step inside?" She asked, moving aside.

  
"No."

  
"Please, I'd like to have a chat with you."

  
She said, still grinning, but I could tell by the tightness of that grin and the look in her eyes that she was getting aggravated.

  
I had no reason to go inside, but I did so anyway. As my mother closed the door behind, I headed through the entranceway and into the living room.

  
Starry eyed cherubim lined the mantlepiece, still. She'd replaced the tall angel I'd left in pieces on the living room floor with a statue of an angel lovingly embracing a small child. The sight of it made me nauseous. I turned to her as she entered the room behind me and stared her down. Her smile was crisp.

  
"The time has come that we have a talk," She said, and then motioned at the couch, "Would you like to sit down?"

  
"Not particularly." I answered, and remained standing. "What do you want to talk about?"

  
She humphed, obviously unhappy I was refusing to play into her game of pleasantries.

  
"Do you remember when you were little and took ill with the flu?" She asked.

  
"I remember being sick and waking up in a hospital after a week full of fever dreams and black outs." I answered dryly.

  
"Back then, I told you..." She paused to draw a breath, "I told you that while you were sick, your father passed away."

  
I gave her an even look. "Yes, you did."

  
"I even took you to his grave afterwards." She continued. She actually looked a little flustered as she spoke. I stayed silent, waiting for her to continue, although I wasn't sure where this was all going. My skin prickled uncomfortably; I had never really enjoyed speaking about my father after he was gone, I'd refused to allow myself to think of him except in moments of mental weakness. The sudden turn of the conversation quickly began to grind my nerves. Why had I considered this an idea worth following through on?

  
"I must admit, I wasn't entirely truthful at the time," She said after a long moment of doing nothing but eyeing me in a curious way. I frowned at her words.

  
"What do you mean?"

  
"I mean... Your father, he..." She sighed, and definitely looked flustered then. "He isn't dead."

  
My brain hiccupped over her words. My frown deepened, I couldn't help but to tilt my head as I tried to make sense of what she'd said.

  
"He's alive." She added.

  
Something was definitely not right with the situation.

  
"You’re crazy, is that it?" I said, words exiting my mouth with little consideration. It was the only possible explanation. I could feel my brain skipping like a record; dead-alive-dead-alive-dead-alive…

  
"I know it's a lot to take in..."

  
"I want to say that if you need help I'll find you a good psychiatrist but honestly I don't feel quite that charitable."

  
"Here, give me a moment." She said, her smile looking shaky. She padded out of the room, leaving me with mind reeling. Dead-alive-dead-alive.... My brain was grasping at slipping grains of sand. Reason was no longer reasonable, but I could keep my composure through anything. I'd kept my composure through anything. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

  
Then she returned.

  
With him.

  
Shaky smile, graying hair, thinner. Older.

  
My brain was hiccuping a staccato, the reverberating words were only white noise buzzing in my skull.

  
"Hi Jeremiah," he said, and his voice was a sledgehammer to my soul. I could feel something inside me crack under the force of his words. Full body shudder, I repressed and retracted. He was grinning and his grin was warm and his grin was dagger sharp and I didn't have the armor to block it's cut.

  
I hadn't realized I'd moved until I had already pushed past them. One or the other called after me but I strode in long steps down the hallway and into my old room, and closed the door, and locked it, and leaned back against it and looked around the midnight cave that used to be home.

  
The window curtains were drawn, and the shades. The sunlight came through in murky patches of maroon that colored the black covers and black rugs and the cobweb lightshades and the dark wood floor. I fought to exist only in the moment that the light touched the edges, fought to be nothing more than the crisp edge of the black desk and the pale moth wings painted on the headboard. I fought to exist in moments and objects because I wasn't sure what would happen if I returned to the here and now and I was terrified to try. The cracking thing inside me was threatening to crumble me to the ground and the only respite I had from the whirlwind of human emotion and existence was the dark on dark on dark on…

  
A soft knock on the door jolted me out of focus, or back into focus. Human focus that reminded me of my racing pulse and beating heart and breath that I couldn't catch no matter how hard I tried. My hands were shaking against the door - behind it I could feel them, their presence radiating like heat straight through the hardwood. They burned right into me and my brain was on fire with their existence.

  
"Jeremiah?" He said, like sparking flame. "Are you okay?"

  
I turned. My hands peeled off the wood and I fell back from their wafting heat. The window was across the room, and then so was I. I drew the shades aside, quietly lest they hear, then the curtains. The light outside was bright as a beacon, as a sign. I unlocked the window and opened it with one smooth motion. I jumped out, like I used to years before.

  
I ran.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


End file.
